


This Modern Life

by MissRedpen



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Frustrated Rumplestilstkin, Grocery Shopping, He loves his Mama, Light Angst, Other, Property Damage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-11-30 10:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11461998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissRedpen/pseuds/MissRedpen
Summary: Living with Mama is an adventure.  Introducing Thistle Thrawn (Rumples' Mama) to modern life.The timeline will bounce around and not be in any particular order.Enjoy!





	1. Chapter 1

This Modern Life

 

“Your mother may not be suited for modern life.” Belle said as she limped into the kitchen. 

“What has she done now?” Gold asked, placing shopping bags full of clothes onto the table. “Did she try to smash the alarm clock again?”

Belle shook her head, droplets of water landing on the floor. “No.” She took a clean dish cloth from a drawer and ran it over her hair. “She thought there was a snake in the shower and tried to kill it.”

“She did what?”

“I was showing Thistle how to work the shower, get just the right temperature. She saw the tube leading to the shower head and thought it was a snake. Your mother tried to bludgeon it to death.”

“With what, a hairbrush?”

“No, my shoe! One minute I'm standing upright, the next she knocks me over, rips the heel off my foot and I see her banging it against the tube. She knocked the shower head loose, it's now bouncing off the wall—while the water is on full blast—and she's trying to kill something that isn't there.”

“That explains why you look like a drowned rat.” Gold smiled, but his wife wasn't amused. “An adorable rat. I'll take care of it.”

Just then Thistle Thrawn called down the stairs, “Where's my dress! Did you put it in that infernal machine?”

Gold replied, “We tried, but it was so old and filthy it fell apart.”

“I told you to wash it in the creek. What am I supposed to wear?”

“I bought you some new clothes, Mother.”

“Ahh, how sweet, my boy wants to take care of me. I'll be right down.”

Gold and Belle looked at each other, panic in their eyes. Belle dashed up the stairs; when Thistle first moved into the pink Victorian, she had a habit from being a peasant in the Enchanted Forest of walking around the house naked on laundry day. Gold shook his head and thought of how much of a shock modern life must be for his mother, whose life in Fairy Tale Land had comprised of horse shit, poverty and death.

“At least we talked her out of using a chamber pot.” Gold whispered to himself.

“Talking to nobody? People'll think you're teched.” Thistle touched her temple. 

Gold smiled at his mother. She was wearing a fluffy, clover green dressing gown. Its long sleeves covered Thistles' knuckles and she rolled them up over her wrists, objecting that only the rich cover their hands. Her long, dirty blonde hair was pulled back in a loose braid.

'Looks better without the rats.' Gold thought to himself. Rather than suffer through brushing, combing and a deep conditioner, Thistle opted to chop the knots and tangles out herself.

“Give me a hug, my boy.” She smiled and opened her arms. Gold walked into the welcoming embrace and inhaled scents of Ivory soap, fresh grass and something safe. Thistle stepped back and looked up at Gold.

“I'm truly sorry about your washing chamber.” 

“It's alright, Mama.”

“Well, you can't be too careful. Snakes are just like rats and mice, if they can fit their head into a hole, they can come into a house.”

“Yes, I know. But homes are constructed better now than they were when I was young.”

Thistle grumbled, “I found that out. Took a fair bit of pounding to put a hole in the wall.”

“What wall?” Gold asked. “The one in the bathroom?”

“Yes. And I'm sorry about that too.”

“Mama, the shower stall wall is covered in tiles an inch thick!”

“Yeah, I kinda dinged one.”

Gold rubbed his hands over his face. 'Keep telling yourself she's new to this life.' he said to himself. Belle, now wearing a dry change of clothes, came into the kitchen and pulled three mugs from the cabinet. 

“Coffee, Thistle?” she offered.

“Put some whiskey in that cup and I'm fine.”

“Thistle, it's eleven in the morning. A little early for alcohol.” Belle chided.

“Nonsense! Everybody knows spirits are the only safe water to drink.” She motioned to the cup. “Fill it up.”

Belle filled Thistles' mug with strong, black coffee, added a splash of half and half and a bit of sugar. “Our water is treated now, it's harmless so that a baby can drink it.” She placed the mug in front of her mother-in-law. “Besides, I think you'll like this.”

Thistle stared at the contents of the cup, almost daring it to do harm. She lifted it to her lips, blew across the rim and took a cautious sip. 

“That'll wake you up in the morning!” She took another sip and sat the mug down. “Thank you Belle, I've found my new favorite drink!”

“Would you like to see what I bought you?” Gold offered, gesturing to the shopping bags. 

“Did you have enough money for it? Or did you barter?” Thistle whispered, as if the shopkeepers were going to burst through the door and accuse her son of making off with goods. “If you pinched, it's not too late to take it back.”

Gold sighed, “Yes, Mama. I paid for everything with good coin.” He wasn't going to explain that he was the richest person in Storybrooke, that might make his peasant mothers' head implode. Instead, he unloaded the bags. Thistles' eyes grew wide at the assortment of clothes her son picked out.

“I only had a handful of dresses growing up. Three or four at the most. This is enough for a lifetime!”

“Mama,” Gold placed his hand on the pile, “this is a weeks' worth of clothes.” 

“You change clothes more than once a month?” 

“Yes, and we bathe every day.” He reminded her.

“You keep saying that, but aren't you afraid you'll run out of water?”

Gold shook his head, introducing Thistle to modern life was like having a child around the house. They even had to baby-proof the electrical outlets, lest she stick something into them and electrocute herself. He remembered the mistake of Thistle walking in on an action movie that was playing on the television; when the police in the film burst through the villians' door, Thistle grabbed a lamp from an end table and yelled “It's the law, boy! Run for it and I'll hold 'em off!” She beat the flat screen with the base of the heavy lamp until the television went dark. She turned and smiled at her son, happy that he was safe.

“Thistle, why don't I help you try on your new clothes?” Belle offered, seeing her husbands' growing aggravation.

“And I have to go to work.” Gold said.

“It's good that you're employed. Are you still spinning and weaving?” Thistle asked.

Gold chuckled, “Something like that.” Thistle motioned for him to lean down so she could place a kiss on his cheek. Then she gathered her new wardrobe and went up the stairs to her bedroom. 

“I'll keep an eye on her.” Belle said, noting the worry in Golds' eyes. 

“Thank you.” Gold sighed, a weary weight sliding off his shoulders, “It's like having a toddler. I'm afraid something terrible will happen right in front of me and I'll be powerless to stop it.”

“She'll get the hang of it.” Belle reassured him, “Then she won't need us anymore.”

Thistle entered the kitchen wearing a bra over her head like a scarf. “Is this how it goes on?”

“That won't be for quite some time.” Gold whispered to Belle.


	2. Fighting the Wee Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thistle is sick. She doesn't trust modern medicine.

Fighting the Wee Men

 

“When did it start?” Whale asked the tense teen on the examining table.

“Yesterday. I told my son I don't need a healer.” Thistle croaked, wiping her runny nose on the sleeve of her woolen peasant dress. 

Thistle and Rumpelstiltskin had arrived via magic to Whales' office. One minute Whale was writing a report about an ingrown toenail, the next a purple poof blew in with the Dark One and his mama holding onto her son for dear life. Whale heard her say something akin to 'Next time we'll walk.'

Whale placed his hands on either side of Thistles' head and pressed against her face with his thumbs. 

“Pain or pressure?” he asked.

“Sprites.” she answered.

“Excuse me?” Whale wondered aloud. “Did you say 'Sprites?'”

“Yeah, nasty Sprites making a home in my head.”

“Mama, we don't have Sprites in Maine.”

“You sure?” Thistle looked at her son with bloodshot eyes. “Feels like an army of the wee men can't decide to dig out or fill up my skull.”

“I'm sure, Mama.” Rumpelstiltskin reassured her.

“Maybe it's tiny dwarves. You got any of those?” 

“A few.” Whale answered. 

“Can you douse some of those candles?” Thistle asked, covering her eyes against the light.

“What?” Whale asked, then he looked up. “Oh, you mean the fluorescent lights. Sorry, it's only on or off. Open your mouth please.”

“What in the seven hells for?”

Whale sighed, wishing for his day to be over. “So I can take your temperature.” He held up a thermometer.

She looked at her son, “He wants to put a stick in my mouth.”

“It's to check if you're running a temperature.” Rumpelstiltskin said.

“You're not speaking your mothers' tongue, boy. Talk plain!”

“I noticed your skin was warm to the touch,” Whale said, “A high temperature—a fever—could be a sign of serious illness. This stick will let me know if you have one or if you just run hot.”

“I'm not running anywhere.” she pointed out. “If I have a fever, just bleed me!”

Whale rubbed his face, thinking 'This is gonna take a while.'

“Mama, we don't use leeches anymore.”

Whale turned to the Dark One, “Actually studies have shown they're helpful as an artificial vein when reattaching limbs after amputation.”

“Shut up about leeches or I'll turn you into one.” Rumpelstiltskin hissed.

Thistle sneezed and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her woolen gown. “You're both talking Greek.” She looked up at Whale, her eyes bloodshot, her nose red and scabbed from rubbing rough material across it. “Do what you have to do.”

Whale gave Thistle a reassuring smile and placed the thermometer under her tongue. Then he looked in her ears and up her nose. He removed the thermometer from her mouth.

“Your stick was beeping. Is it supposed to do that?” 

Whale nodded, “Open your mouth again, please.” She clamped her lips together. “I need to see what color your throat is.” She obliged, but kept an ever watchful eye on him, as did her son. “Bright red.” He turned and put the equipment on the desk next to the examining table, when he turned back around Thistle was lying on her side. Rumpelstilskin had covered her with a blanket from the cupboard. Whale thought that was sweet, but he kept it to himself. “Thistle, it looks like you have an allergy.”

“Wha's that?” she asked.

“It's something irritating your sinuses.” 

“If my giddyup hadn't gone, I'd ask you more questions.”

“What's causing it?” Rumpelstiltskin asked.

“It could be anything from dust and cat dander to white walnut and...”

“Wee men.” Thistle whispered adamantly.

“What can you do for her?” Rumpelstiltskin stroked his Mamas' hair softly. 

“I'll call in a prescription at Clarks' Pharmacy. A daily nasal spray will fight it off. For now, I can give you a powerful decongestant.”

Thistles' eyes were closed, but she was still paying attention. “Is it like a tea? Do I drink it?”

“It's a shot. It's delivered by a needle.”

Thistles' eyes flew open. “The hell you say! Boy,” she turned to her son, “I don't care if I throw up, use that purple cloud of yours and get me out of here!”

“Mama, it's for the best!”

Thistle tossed the blanket aside and struggled to sit up. Whale backed out of the examining room. “I'll be back in a minute. I have an idea.” He said to Rumpelstiltskin, who was trying to calm down his frightened Mama.

“Have you forgotten how big a needle is?” Thistle demonstrated with her thumb and forefinger, although her fear might have increased its size by a few inches. “Damned butcher, it'll probably be made of iron. I'd rather be sick.”

“No, you wouldn't. An untreated illness can put you in the hospital, or worse.”

Thistle opened her mouth to object but a long, wet cough came out instead of an argument. As she was trying to figure out what a tissue was for, there was a knock on the door. It was Whale, his hand was behind his back.

“I thought perhaps this would go easier if you saw the implement first.” He brought forth a silver tray covered in a paper sheet.

“They used to do that to prisoners before they were tortured.” Thistle hadn't forgotten her history. Whale removed the sheet and on it were a couple of syringes equipped with needles. She looked at them with growing skepticism. 

“They're little.” She noted. “How can they do a job if they're so small?”

“The smaller the...” he began.

“Wound? Let's call a spade a spade.”

“Alright. The smaller the wound site, the faster it heals. I don't know what else to say to reassure you.”

Rumpelstiltskin removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeve. “The proof of the pudding is in the eating of the pudding.” Both Thistle and Whale were gape-mouthed. “If this is what it takes, then do it.”

“Boy!”

“Okay, but it doesn't go in the arm.” Whale informed him, “You have to drop your pants.”

Second thoughts danced around Rumpelstiltskins' mind. Whale would see his ass cheek? With his Mama in the room? His Mama and Whale would see his ass? He turned and unbuckled his belt. 

Thistle took a peek, “Your butt's bigger than I remember.”

The Dark One groaned. Whale tried not to smile.

“It used to be so small it fit in the palm of my hand.” Thistle wistfully recalled.

Rumpelstiltskin wondered if one could truly die from embarrassment. “Breathe a word of this...” he threatened Whale.

“I won't. Patient confidentiality.” Whale prepped a syringe with medicine and rubbed an alcohol wipe on Rumpelstiltskins' hip. “Lean forward, please.” The Dark One winced as the needle was plunged into his skin.

“See!” Thistle pointed to her son, “It hurts!”

“Mama, are you in pain now?” 

Thistle nodded, but not vigorously as jerky movements made her feel like her head was coming off. 

“This will take care of it.” Rumpelstiltskin stood upright and fixed his clothing.

Thistle leaned against the table and hitched up her dress. She bit down on her index finger, expecting the worst. “It kinda feels like a slow bee sting.” 

“Not as bad as you thought?” Rumpelstiltskin asked. His mama shook her head.

“When will I start feeling better?” 

“It should start to take effect in about thirty minutes.”

“Would a nap help it along?” she asked.

“I strongly recommend naps, daily when possible.” Whale insisted, “You might not have much of an appetite...”

“Food hurts going down and everything tastes green.” Thistle complained.

“That's also normal. Make sure you drink plenty of water and juices. Try chicken soup and avoid anything spicy.”

“It all feels pointy.” She said. 

“For pain, try Aleve. For immediate relief, ice cream. Lots of chocolate ice cream.”

Thistle looked at her son, unsure of what Whale just said. 

“It's like flavored snow.” he said.

She thanked the doctor and promised to send over chickens as payment. He thought it best not to explain money, insurance or anything else modern. Before Rumpelstiltskin exited the room, Whale pulled him aside.

“You may want to teach her about modern cleanliness.” Whale whispered, waving his hand in front of his nose.


	3. The Right Fit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of the gang stage an intervention so Thistle will wear new clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felt emotional yesterday, so Thistle is emotional too.

The Right Fit

 

“And the horse ya rode in on!” Thistle yelled at the group of friends and enemies. 

Gold, Belle, Regina and Snow had converged on Thistle in the living room of the pink Victorian. Something had to be done about her clothes. She had worn the same woolen peasant dress since they returned from the Underworld, and probably for a decade before she died. Its ragged hemline came to Thistles' mid-shin; the sleeves were snagged at the cuffs and threadbare at the elbows. The color was a combination of stains from various foods, physical labor and body secretions. It was stiff from sweat and had an all-over perfume of brown. 

“There's nothin' wrong with mah dress that a spring rain wouldn't cure.”

“More like a fireball.” Regina scoffed. 

“Mrs. Stiltskin,” Snow began, sounding as if she were speaking to a small child, “We're trying to help you.”

“I know, dearie, now stop talkin' to me like I'm the village idjit.” Thistle extended an arm in Golds' direction, “My son already traded for new clothes.” A funky odor wafted from Thistles' pits and Belle scurried to open a nearby window. 

“I've heard they're lovely.” Snow said.

“They are. Thick material and quality craftsmanship,” Thistle proudly reported, “The best my boy could buy and I'm sure they'll be good for years!”

Gold placed a hand on Thistles' shoulder, “Then why don't you wear them, Mama?” Thistles' eyes closed and Gold saw small tears fighting to squeeze free of the lids. Mindless of the green smell imbedded in her woolen dress, he drew her close.

“They don't fit.” she whispered in a small voice.

Gold rolled his eyes, “I'll use magic and tailor them to your form. 

“They're too fine for the likes of me.” Thistle whispered in a small voice. “They're all slick blouses and plush velvet. Ladies like them,” she motioned at Regina and Snow, “and landed gentry, they wear clothes like that.”

Snow was in near tears, “Thistle, don't you know you're a lady too?”

Thistle pulled away from her sons' chest, tears and snot flowing freely down her face, “Were you dropped on your head as a child? Me, a lady? My people were crofters! We kept chickens and sheep, we poached the occasional deer, there's no royal blood in me!”

Belle approached Thistle and handed her a box of Kleenex. Thistle removed one from the box and wiped her nose on her filthy sleeve. 

“Thistle,” Regina sat down on the sofa and motioned for Thistle to sit next to her, “I've spent my life at court and can tell you there's more to being noble than having a high rank. You speak the honest truth when others would tell a pretty lie.”

“They always come back to bite you in the ass. Even if it's ugly, at least they'll know where you stand.”

“You make sure everyone gets a fair share,” Regina continued.

“As they should!” Thistle interrupted.

“I've seen so-called lords and ladies begrudge babies a mouthful of food.”

Thistle clenched her hands into tight fists.

“You even spared Hades from embarrassment, which shows you don't enjoy inflicting pain.”

“Well...it ain't right, airin' your dirty laundry in front of company.”

“So that description proves that you have the heart of a lady. That's what matters.”

Thistle sat quietly for a moment, chewing on this insight. “Never thought of it that way.” She looked sheepishly at everyone, “I'm truly sorry.” 

Belle smiled and squeezed her husbands' hand. Snow blew her nose into several tissues.

“So, Mama, will you try the new clothes?” Gold asked.

Thistle shook her head; Gold groaned, hoping to be past all this.

“Don't be growlin' at me, boy. I meant that they're not me. I'll wear some of your modern finery, but that silk shirt makes me feel cold. I'm used to stronger, heavier fabrics. Something that keeps out the weather.”

“But you like the softness of the housecoat we got you.” Belle pointed out.

Thistle nodded, “Oh, yes. That's like wrapping yourself in a cozy dream.”

Regina, who had until now been forgotten by the group, removed her tablet from her oversized bag. “Thistle, allow me to introduce you to your new best friend.”

Thistle pointed a finger and ran it across the plastic and glass in awe. “What's that?”

“A way of finding a wardrobe that fits your form and personality. It's called internet shopping.”

“Lemme see.” Thistle asked and Regina handed over the tablet, immediately regretting the decision. Regina stared in horror as Thistle jostled the tablet about, as if she were trying to shake some sense into it. 

“Stop you ignorant, inbred peasant!” Regina screamed, trying to wrestle the tablet from Thistle.

“I'm tryin' to get the clothes out, woman!”


	4. To Market, To Market

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thistle is introduced to grocery stores.

To Market, To Market 

 

Emma pulled up in front of the pink Victorian and opened the back door of the squad car. She pointed to the front door of the mansion and a resentful Thistle stepped out of the car. When Gold saw Emma arrive he dropped what he was doing (not literally, one shouldn't casually toss aside a hex spell talisman) and met them at the door.

“Is that you, Deputy Swan?” Gold asked. It looked as if Emma Swan, savior of Storybrooke had gone fifteen rounds with Audrey II, with the judges undecided. There were streaks of mud and dirt in her hair and on her face. Leaves and hunks of grass were sticking to Emmas' uniform. There was a gash in her trousers over the knee and she was limping. 

“Get in that house and don't make me shoot you.” Emma grumbled and growled at Thistle, who entered the mansion.

Gold approached Emma, silent as a snake. He stopped in front of the Deputy. “Why are you threatening my mother? What makes you think I'll allow it to continue?”

Emma drew herself up to her full height—hard to do since she put most of her weight on her good leg—and stared Gold down, her fingers tapping her sidearm. 

“Your mother...” Emma began to complain, then threw her hands up in frustration, “Your monkey, your circus.”

Gold nodded, unsure if he wanted further explanation. He looked over his shoulder to the house; Thistle was looking out a window at he and Emma. There was a smile on his mothers' face, growing into a grin.

“I'll take care of it.” Gold promised.

“See that you do.” Emma said as she limped back to the squad car.

-=-=-=-=-=-=

Gold found Thistle in the kitchen, drinking water straight from the tap.

“Mama, we have cups and glasses.”

“I know, boy, but this was faster.” Thistle wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her peasant dress, “I didn't think your modern women could move so fast; she's a lively one, once she gets a leg under her.”

“What did you do...this time?” The long-suffering son went to the living room, pulled a tumbler from the liquor cabinet and poured himself two fingers of scotch. Thistle joined him and pointed to a glass.

“I could do with one too, you know. Or did you forget your Mama was here?”

Gold sighed and took a quick sip before filling his Mamas' glass. “Oh, no. My memory is constantly refreshed when looking at the catalog of damages you've done since rejoining the world of the living.”

Thistle waved a hand dismissively at him, as if her son were a pesky fly.

“You've destroyed one alarm clock, Belles' hair dryer and two flat-screen televisions. We've replaced tile in the guest bathroom and we owe Regina a new tablet, since you decided hammering it against the coffee table was the best way to get clothes out of it.”

“Ach. That wasn't much. And neither is that drink, boy. Fill it up, you want I should die of thirst?”

Gold poured a generous measure of scotch into his mothers' tumbler and refilled his own.

“Mama, what happened?”

Thistle sighed and looked shamefaced as a dog caught stealing eggs. “I was gettin' ya some supper.”

“Supper?” 

“Yeah, supper. There's this big pond and I was gonna sit down and get ya some fish. For supper.”

“Fish for supper.” Gold took a gulp of scotch, “Then what happened? Did Emma catch you fishing and take away the fish?”

“Nah, she didn't. My fish are still on the line under the water. I'll go back after dark and get them.”

“Leave them, Mama. By now they'll be iffy. Why was Deputy Swan so filthy?”

Thistle snorted and took a sip of her drink. “I was checkin' my snares and didn't see her follow me into the woods.”

“Snares?” 

“Are you gonna repeat everything I say in hopes I'll say somethin' different?”

“What did you hope to catch?” Gold rubbed his temples. 

“Rabbits.”

“So you were checking snares and Emma caught you.”

Thistle smiled a shit-eating grin. “She tried, but I was too fast, even in my bare feet.” Gold looked at his mamas' appearance for the first time; Thistles' feet were covered with dirt and forest floor debris. “I was on my third snare when she saw me. Led her on a merry chase, I did. I almost outran her when I heard her cry out. She must've fallen over a root or something. So I gave up and now I'm here.”

“Mama, we have enough food in that,” Gold gestured to the stainless steel refrigerator in the kitchen, “to supply a small village.”

“You must do a lot of hunting.” She said in awe.

“That's not how we get groceries. We have markets now.”

“There were market stalls in the Enchanted Forest, but as I recall they never had enough food. That's why I went hunting and trapping.”

“Mama,” Gold sat down he and his mothers' drinks on the table. “Come with me.” With a wave of his hand they were transported to a brightly-lit building with wide aisles and more choices than a body could make. “Welcome to Sprats' Grocery store.” 

Thistle blinked against the lights, “What is this place?”

“This is how we get food in the modern world.”

“Biggest market I've ever seen. You could fit our whole village in here!” Thistle pulled a can off the nearest shelf. “What's this?” she asked, looking at the picture, “It looks like seaweed.”

“Spinach. It's similar to...” Gold never finished his explanation because Thistle had ran to the meat coolers.

“Boy! What's this?” Thistle pulled a rectangular box out of an open cooler.

“Fish.” He replied as Thistle ripped the cardboard box open and bread covered sticks came tumbling out. 

“No it's not.” Thistle laughed, “Fish has a head and a tail.” She looked around. “Where's the oats?” Then she left without her sons' direction. By the time Gold caught up with her, Thistle had obtained a basket and the attention of an employee, who, upon seeing Gold, took off like a paycheck on Friday.

“That young man said I could find lard in the same lane as Crisco, but didn't know what soordook was.” 

Gold sighed, “It's in the dairy department. These days it's called buttermilk.”

Thistle smiled, then frowned. “What's Crisco?”

“It's a cooking oil. Mama,” Gold placed his hands on Thistles' shoulders to prevent her from bolting again. “I just wanted to show you that trapping and hunting isn't entirely necessary anymore.” Thistle struggled against his hold, like she was trying to shrug off a bad feeling.

“I want to, boy. You were always so skinny.”

“What do you mean, Mama?”

“Bringing home a mess of fish or a brace of coneys makes me feel like the provider you should have had.” Thistle sighed. “I'm not makin' sense, am I?”

Gold took the basket from Thistles' hand. “You're going to need a bigger cart.”

Hours later at the checkout, it took two stock men and a manager to bag everything Thistle had crammed into the overloaded grocery cart: milk, eggs, flour, oats (“Gotta have oats, boy, they stick to your ribs!”), lard, fresh meat (rabbit, liver, beef, chicken,) potatoes, turnips, carrots, salmon (“Don't count as fish unless it has a head.”)

“Oh, I forgot something!” Thistle said and took off for the fresh fruit department near the entrance of the store. She returned a few minutes later with packages of strawberries and blueberries. 

“Mama, don't you think you have enough?” Rumplestiltskin gestured to the heavily laden cart.

Thistle shook her head. “It's not for me, boy. I'm gonna make scones for that lady, the one that brought me home. It's the least I can do for causing her a hurt.”

Rumplestiltskin felt a swell of pride growing in his chest. 

“Unless she'd rather have fresh rabbit. I still have snares in the forest.”

Rumplestiltskin grabbed some antacids from the checkout lane and thrust them at the cashier. “Add these to the bill and I don't need a bag.”


End file.
